
Book _.. 



AND LANCASB ffiB S' 



i'iJ /*> 




BY 



V 

EDWIN WAUGH. 




LONDON 
WHITTAKER AND CO., AVE MARIA LANE. 

MANCHESTER: 

EDWIN SLATER, 129, MARKET STREET. 

MDCCCLIX. 






vC 



LONDON: 

SAYILL and edwaeds, peintebs, chandos-stbeet, 

COVENT-GABDEN. 



IX 






2 



TO JOHN BEIGHT. 



CONTENTS, 



POEMS. 

PAGE 

THE MOORLAND FLOWER 3 

THE WORLD 7 

TO THE ROSE-TREE ON MY WINDOW-SILL II 

TIME IS FLYING 21 

TO A MARRIED LADY 24 

CULTIVATE YOUR MEN 26 

THE DYING ROSE 20. 

BIDE ON 33 

NIGHTFALL 35 

POOR TRAVELLERS ALL 38 

TO A YOUNG LADY WHO LENT ME AN OLD BOOK ... 42 

THE MAN OF THE TIME 44 

LINES 46 

OLD MAN'S SONG 4.8 



VI CONTENTS. 

SONGS 

IN THE LANCASHIRE DIALECT. 

PAGE 

COME WHO AM TO THY CHILDER AN' ME 53 

WHAT AILS THEE, MY SON ROBIN? 57 

GOD BLESS THESE POOE FOLK ! 60 

COME, MARY, LINK THI ARM i' MINE 64 

CHIRRUP 68 

THE DULE's I 1 THIS BONNET o' MINE 72 

tickle times 75 

jamie's frolic 79 

SONGS, ETC. 

THE MOORLANDS 87 

KEEN BLOWS THE NORTH WIND 90 

THE MOORLAND WITCH 93 

CHRISTMAS SONG 96 

ALL ON A ROSY MORN OF JUNE 99 

YE GALLANT MEN OF ENGLAND 102 

GLAD WELCOME TO MORN'S DEWY HOURS IO5 

ALAS ! HOW HARD IT IS TO SMILE IO7 

GOD BLESS THEE, OLD ENGLAND ! IO9 

OH, WEAVE A GARLAND FOR MY BROW Ill 

TO THE SPRING WIND 113 



CONTENTS. Vll 

PAGE 

oh! had she been a lowly maid 115 

here's to my native land ii 7 

when drowsy daylight 120 

alone upon the flowery plain 122 

what makes your leaves fall down? 1 24 

the wanderer's hymn . 1 26 

now summer's SUNLIGHT GLOWING. 128 

the captain's friends 133 

oh! come across the fields 138 

MARY 14 1 

LOVE AND GOLD I43 

THE OLD BARD'S WELCOME HOME 1 48 



POEMS. 



THE MOORLAND FLOWER 



"J3 ENEATH a crag, whose forehead rude 

O'erfrowns the mountain side,— 
Stern monarch of the solitude, 

Dark-heaving, wild, and wide, — 
A floweret of the moorland hill 

Peeped out unto the sky, 
In a mossy nook, where a limpid rill 

Came tinkling blithely by. 



Like a star-seed, from the night-skies flung 

Upon the mountains lone, 
Into a gleaming floweret sprung, — 

Amid the wild it shone ; 
b2 



THE MOOELAND FLOWEK. 

And bush and brier, and rock and rill, 
And every wandering wind, 

In interchange of sweet good- will 
And mutual love did bind. 

in. 
In the gloaming grey, at close of day, 

Beneath the deepening blue, 
It lifted up its little cup, 

To catch the evening dew : — 
The rippling fall, the moorfowl's call, 

The wandering night-wind's moan ; 
It heard, it felt, it loved them all, — - 

That floweret sweet and lone. 



The green fern wove a screening grove 
From noontide's fervid ray ; 

The pearly mist of the brooklet kist 
Its leaves with cooling spray \ 



THE MOORLAND FLOWER. 

And, when dark tempests swept the waste, 
And north winds whistled wild, 

The brave old rock kept off the shock, 
As a mother shields her child. 

v. 

And when it died the south wind sighed, 

The drooping fern looked dim ; 
The old crag moaned, the lone ash groaned, 

The wild heath sang a hymn ; 
The leaves crept near, though fallen and sere, 

Like old friends mustering round ; 
And the dew-drop fell from the heather-bell 

Upon its burial ground. 

VI. 

For it had bloomed content to bless 

Each thing that round it grew ; 
And on its native wilderness 

Its store of sweetness strew : 



THE MOORLAND FLOWER. 

Fair link in nature's chain of love, 

To noisy fame unknown, 
There is a register above, 

E'en when a flower is gone. 

VII. 

So, lovingly embrace thy lot, 

Though lowly it may be, 
And beautify the little spot 

Where God hath planted thee : 
To win the world's approving eyes 

Make thou no foolish haste, — 
Heaven loves the heart that lives and dies 

To bless its neighbouring waste. 



THE WOKLD. 



nnHIS foolish world doth wink 

Its cunning lid ; 
And, when it thinks, doth think 
Its thoughts are hid. 



Its piety's a screen 

Where vice doth hide ; 
Its purity's unclean ; 

Its meekness, pride. 



THE WORLD. 

in. 
Its charity's a bait 

To catch a name ; 
Its kindness covers hate ; 

Its praise is blame. 

IV. 

Its wisdom soweth seeds 
Which follies prove ; 

And its repentance needs 
Repenting of. 

v. 

Its learning's empty talk ; 

Its heart is cold ; 
Its church is an exchange ; 

Its god is gold. 

VI. 

Its pleasures all are blind, 
And lead to pain ; 

Its treasures are a kind 
Of losing gain. 



THE WORLD. 

VII. 

Lust moves it more than love, 

Fear more than shame ; 
Its best ambitions have 

A grovelling aim. 

/ 

VIII. 

Its laws are a disgrace ; 

Its lords are slaves ; 
Its honours are misplaced, 

E'en on our graves. 

IX. 

Some sorrow doth attend 

Its happiest dreams ; 
And rottenness doth end 

Its rotten schemes. 

x. 
Oh, cure our moral madness — 

Our soul-disease ; 
Show us that Yice brings sadness, 

And Yirtue, ease. 



10 THE WORLD. 

XI. 

And teach us in the hour 

Of Sin's dismay, 
That Truth's the only flower 

Without decay. 



11 



TO 



THE ROSE-TREE ON MY WINDOW-SILL. 



T\ ARK is the lot of him with heart so dull 

By sensual appetite's unbridled sway, 
As to be blind unto the beautiful 

In common things that strew the common 
way. 
Trailing the dusty elements of death, 

He crawls, in his embruted blindness, proud ; 
To perishable ends he draws his breath ; 

His life, a funeral passing through a crowd ; 
His soul, a shrunken corpse within ; his body, but a 
shroud. 



12 TO THE ROSE-TREE 

ii. 
Nature ! kind handmaid of the thoughtful soul,' 

Be thy sweet ministrations ever mine ; 
Thy angel-influences keep me whole, 

And lead my spirit into things divine : 
Holding thy lovely garment, when a child, 

I walked in simple ecstacy with thee ; 
And now, with sadder heart, and travel-toiled, 
Thou hast a sanctuary still for me, 
Where oft I find repose from earthly care and 
misery. 

in. 

In cities proud, by grovelling factions torn, 
Where glittering pomp and stony-eyed despair, 

Murder and stealth, the lordly and the lorn, 

Squalor and wealth, divide the Christian air ; — 

Where prowling outcasts hug with ignorant rage 
Some sense of wrong that smoulders deep 
within ; — 



ON MY WINDOW-SILL. 13 

Where mean intrigues their furtive battles wage ; 
Where they are wrong that lose, and they are 
right that win, — 
And drowning virtue struggles with the waves of 
sin : — 



Where drooping penitence, and pious pride ; 
The sons of labour and the beasts of prey ; 
The spoilers and the spoiled, are side by side, 
Jostling unkindly on the crowded way ; — 
E'en there sweet Nature sings her heaven-taught 
songs, — 
Unheeded minstrel of the fuming street, — 
For ever wooing its discordant throngs 

With sounds and shapes that teem with lessons 
meet, — 
Like thee, fair rose-tree, on my window blooming 
sweet. 



14 TO THE ROSE-TREE 

Y. 

Oh, floral comrade of my lonely hours, 

Sweet soother of my saddest mood, 
The summer's glow, the scents of summer flowers, 

Are filling all my solitude : 
The thick-leaved groves, whose sylvan rooflets ring 

With blending lyrics poured from every tree, 
The sleepy streams where swallows dip the wing, 

The wild flowers, nodding in the wind, I see, — 
And hear the murmurous music of the roving bee. 

VI. 

Taking my willing fancy by the hand, 

Thou lead est me through nature like a child, 
Where rustling forests robe the pleasant land, 

And lonely streamlets ripple through the wild ; — 
Through verdant nooks, where, on the long, cool grass 

The lingering dews light up the leafy shade, 
In dreamy bliss, my wandering footsteps pass, 

Sweeping from many a lush and bending blade 
The load of liquid pearls that such a twinkling made. 



ON MY WINDOW-SILL. 15 

VII. 

Now, through a sunny glade, away, away, — 

Oh, let me wander thus a while with thee, — 
By many a pleasant streamlet we will play, 

And gad o'er many a field in careless glee : 
Thus gently thou, when on life's pathway rude 

My heart grows faint as gloomy shadows lower, 
Leadest me back into a happier mood, 

By some sweet, secret, heaven-inspired power, 
That lurks in thy f ringed leaf and orient-tinted flower. 

VIII. 

My spirit bursts its prison-house of care, 

And dreamily, with lingering feet, I stray 
Where garden odours fill the golden air, 

And blossoms tremble to the wild birds' lay ; — 
O'er cool moist slopes, beneath the woodland shade, 

Where the blithe throstle in his chamber sings, 
Then wonders at the music he has made ; — 

Where the lush bluebell's little censer swings, 
And pleasant incense to the wandering breezes flings. 



16 



TO THE ROSE-TREE 



Upon a shady bank, as I recline, 

Gazing, with silent joy. the landscape o'er, 
I feel its varied glories do ably niine — 

My heart's inheritance, my fancy's store ; 
Above me waves a roof of green and gold — 

Delightful shelter from the noontide heat; 
Beyond, a wandering streamlet I behold, 

Where wind and sunlight on the waters meet 
In silvery shimmerings, past description sweet. 



I hear the skylark, poised on trembling wings, 

Teaching the heavenly quire his thrilling lay, 
While white-winged seraphs, bending, as he sings, 

Listen, in crowds, to catch his minstrelsy ; — 
As the blithe lyric streams upon the lea, 

Steeping the wildflowers in melodious rain, 
The very clewclrops, dancing to the glee. 

Look up with me, but, like me, look in vain 
To find the heaven-hid singer of that matchless strain. 



ON MY WINDOW-SILL. 17 

XI. 

Now, on rough byways, sauntering through the sun, 

From fertile haunts of man I gladly stray, 
Up to the sweet brown moorlands, bleak and dun, 

While rindling waters tinkle o'er my way ; 
There the bold eagle freely roams the sky ; 

And red grouse, springing from the heath'ry steep, 
Wake the wild echoes with their lonely cry ; 

And whistling breezes unrestrained sweep 
Across the proud old hills, that in the sunlight sleep. 

XII. 

O'er yon wild height, between the rugged steeps, 

From crag to crag, in many an airy bound 
Of mighty glee, the mountain torrent leaps, 

And the lone ravine trembles to the sound ; 
Through cave and cleft, along the narrow glen, 

The rushing thunders rage, and roll afar, 
Like untamed lions struggling in their den, — 

With unavailing rage, — each rocky scar 
Hurls back the prisoned roar of elemental war. 
c 



18 



TO THE ROSE-TREE 



As homeward, down the winding path I stray, 

Where mazy midges in the twilight throng, 
In plaintive fits of liquid melody, 

I hear the lonely ousel's vesper-song ; 
Odours of unseen flowers the air pervade ; 

As I sit listening on a wayside mound, 
Watching the daylight and its business fade, 

The evening stillness fills with weird sound, 
And distant waters chant their ancient choral 
round. 



Mild evening brings the gauzy fringe of dreams 
That trails upon the golden skirts of day ; 

And here and there a cottage candle gleams 
With cheerful twinkle o'er my drowsy way ; 

As flaxen-headed elves, from rambles wild, 

With straggling footsteps, to their mothers hie 

With woodland trophies, and with garments soiled^ 



ON MY WINDOW-SILL. 19 

All tired and pleased, — they know not, care not 
why;— 
Thus from my wand'rings I return, as daylight quits 
the sky. 

XT. 

Oh, flowery leader of these fancy flights, 

Epitome of Nature's charms to me, 
Filling my spirit with such fine delights 

As I can never more repay to thee, — 
For my behoof thou donn'st the summer's sheen, 

Smiling benignly on thy prison-spot, 
Though exiled from that native nook of green 

Where playmate zephyrs seek through bower and 
grot, 
Through all the summer roses seek, but find thee not. 

XVI. 

Fair lamp of beauty, in my cloistral shade, 

Though brief at best the time thou hast to shine, 

By an almighty artist thou wert made, 
And touched with light eternally divine. 
c2 



20 TO THE ROSE-TREE ON MY WINDOW-SILL. 

Like a caged bird, in this seclusion dim, — 

Where slanting sunbeams seldom find a way, — 
Singing with patient joy a silent hymn, 

That wafts my thought from worldly care away 
Into the realms of Nature's endless holiday. 



Sweet specimen of Nature's mystic skill, 

Dost thou know aught of human joys and woes ? 
Can'st thou be gladdened by the glad heart's thrill, 

Or feel the writhing spirit's silent throes 1 
To me thou art a messenger of love — 

A leaf of peace amid the storms of woe — 
Dropt in my path by that celestial Dove 

Who made all things in heaven and earth below, 
That wandering man the beautiful and true might 
know. 



2] 



TIME IS FLYING. 



rrilME is flying ! 
Are we hieing 
To a brighter, better bourne t 

Or, unthinking, 

Daily sinking 
Into night that knows not morn ? 



Oh, what is life 

But duty's strife ? 
A drill ; a watchful sentry's round ; 

A brief campaign 

For deathless gain ; 
A bivouac on battle-ground ; 



22 TIME IS FLYING. 

in. 

An arrow's flight ; 

A taper's light ; 
A fitful day of sun and cloud ; 

A flower ; a shade ; 

A journey made 
Between a cradle and a shroud. 

IV. 

Oh, what is death ? 

A swordless sheath ; 
A jubilee ; a mother's call ; 

A kindly breast, 

That offers rest 
Unto the poorest of us all ; 

T. 

The wretched's friend ; 
Oppression's end ; 
The outcast's shelter from the cold ; 



TIME IS FLYING. 23 

To regions dim, 
The portal grim 
Where misers leave their loads of gold ; 

VI. 

A voyage o'er ; — 

A misty shore, 
With time-wrecked generations strown ; 

Where each mad age 

Has spent its rage 
Upon a continent unknown. 



24 



TO A MAKEIED LADY. 

i. 
A H, this wild voyage o'er the sea of life 

Needs all the help that heaven to earth can give; 
Through its dark storms and shoals and battle-strife 
God must be pilot to the ships that live. 
ii. 
Happy the heart that finds a haven of love 

Where in the tempest it can sweetly moor, 
And taste below the bliss that but above 
Is ever stainless, and is ever sure. 



And b]esb the hearth where pure affections glow — 
The husband's and the father's best retreat ; 

Where heavenward souls in one direction grow, 
With all their tendrils round them twining sweet. 



TO A MARRIED LADY. 25 

IV, 

Such be thy home ; through earth's mutations strange, 
A garden, where the flowers of heaven grow ; 

And, sheltered there from blight, through every change, 
Its loves, its hopes, no touch of ruin know. 

v. 
May Time, whose withering finger ever brings, 

To Nature's best the doom of sure decline, 
Float over thee with gently-fanning wings, 

And find the twilight of thy life divine. 

VI. 

And, ever hand in hand along your path, 
For thee and thine thus doth the poet pray, 

That ye may walk in joy from life to death, 
And earth's night be the dawn of heaven's day. 



26 



CULTIVATE YOUR MEN. 



HP ILL as ye ought your barren lands, 

And drain your moss and fen ; 
Give honest work to willing hands, 

And food to hungry men ; 
And hearken — all that have an ear — 

To this unhappy cry, — 
" Are poor folk's only chances here 

To beg, to thieve, or die !" 



With kindly guerdon this green earth 

Rewards the tiller's care, 
And to the wakening hand gives forth 

The bounty slumbering there ; 



CULTIVATE YOUR MEN. 27 

But there's another, nobler field 

Big with immortal gain, — 
The morasses of mind untilled ;— 

Go, — cultivate your men ! 

in. 
Oh, ponder well, ye pompous men 

With Mammon-blinded eyes, 
What means the poverty and pain 

That moaning round you lies ; 
And plough the wastes of human mind 

Where weedy ignorance grows, — 
These baleful deserts of mankind 

Would blossom like the rose. 

IV. 

But penny- wise, pound-foolish thrift 

Deludes this venal age ; 
Blind self's the all-engrossing drift, 

And pelf, the sovereign rage. 



28 CULTIVATE YOUR MEN. 

E'en in the Church the lamp grows dim, 
That ought to light to heaven, 

And that which fed its holy flame, 
To low ambition's given. 

v. 
Just retribution hovers near 

This play of pride and tears ; 
To Heaven the earth's pretence is clear, 

Whatever cloak it wears ; 
And high and low are on a path 

That leads into the grave, 
Where false distinctions flit from death, 

And tyrant rots with slave. 



29 



THE DYING EOSE. 



T) ROWN Autumn sings his anthem drear 

O'er Summer's waning pride ; 
And the water-lily to its bier 

Droops by the brooklet side : 
It is the hour, my favourite flower, 

When thou must take the way 
To join these relics of the bower 

In neighbourly decay. 



I saw thy bud, with orient tip, 

Peep forth in beauty rare, 
When dewdrops thronged thy blushing lip — 

Thou sweetheart of the air ! 



30 THE DYING KOSE. 

But brief, alas, the charm it wrought 

In this delighted eye; 
For, 'twas unmingled with a thought 

That thou wert doomed to die. 



The golden sunshine smiled to see 
How beautiful it grew • 

Rich with its perfume, o'er the lea 
The whispering breezes flew ; 

The wild bee well might linger long- 
Within those rosy folds, — 

'Twas there he purchased, for a song, 
The sweetest wealth he holds. 

IV. 

But Summer's golden glory's o'er ; 

I hear thy death- wind moan : 
Both leaf and flower have had their hour, 

And home again are gone ; 



THE DYING ROSE. 31 

The greenwood's tresses, fallen away, 

Upon the ground are laid : 
My floral friend, thy work is done, — 

Go, rest thee with the dead. 



Not long, at best, thou fading flower, 

Has man to stay behind ; 
Cold death may still at any hour 

The fever of his mind ■ 
May check his frets of joy and grief, 

Extinguish all his pride, 
And lay hini, like a blighted leaf, 

To moulder at thy side. 

VI. 

But go thy way ; 'twas ever so 
With all beneath the sky; 

We do not all so sweetly grow, 
Though we as surely die : 



32 THE DYING EOSE. 

Companions in a graveward throng 

Upon a rugged way, 
Where trouble cannot keep us long, 

Though joy may never stay. 

VII. 

Go, rest in peace thy weary head 

The chilling winter through ; 
New spring shall cheer thy lonely bed, 

And wake thy life anew : 
So thou, my soul, shalt rise again, 

To breathe a purer breath, 
In climes beyond the fatal chain 

That binds this realm of death. 



33 



BIDE OK 



TTTHEN thy heart 'neath its trouble sinks down, 

And the joys that misled it are gone,— 
When the hopes that inspired it are flown, 
And it gropes in the darkness alone, — 
Let faith be thy cheer, 
Scorn the whispers of fear, 
Look up to the heavens, and bide on. 

ii. 
When fancy's wild meteor-ray 

Allures thee from duty to roam, 
Beware its bewildering way, 

And rest with thy conscience at home ;— 
Give ear to its voice ; 
Let the stream of thy joys 
From the fountain of purity come. 



34 BIDE ON. 

in. 
When, by failure and folly borne down, 

The future looks hopelessly drear, 
And each day, as it flies, with a frown, 
Tells how helpless, how abject we are ; 
Let nothing dismay 
Thy bold effort to-day ; — 
Be patient, and still persevere. 

IV. 

Be steady, in joy and in sorrow ; 

Be truthful, in great and in small ; 
Eear nothing but sin, and each morrow 
Heaven's blessing upon thee shall fall: 
In thy worst tribulation 
Shun low consolation, 
And trust in the God that sees all. 



35 



NIGHTFALL. 



^T^HE green leaves answer to the night- wind's sigh, 
And dew-drops winking, on the meadows lie; 
The sun's gone down 
O'er the drowsy town ; 
And the brooks are singing to the listening moon. 



The soft wind whispers on its moody way ; 
The plumy woodlands in the moonlight play ; 

Night's tapers gleam 

In the gliding stream ; 
Heaven's eyes are watching while the earth doth dream. 
d 2 



36 NIGHTFALL. 

in. 

The lovely light that dwells in woman's eyes, 
Softly curtained by the fringed lids lies ; 

Sleep's Lethean hand 

Waves o'er the land, 
And the weary toiler to his shelter hies. 






Old nurse, whose lullaby can soothe them all. 
Oh, hap them kindly in thy downy pall ! 

They've gone astray 

On life's rough way • 
But, rest them ■ rest them for another day. 



The living, sleeping in their warm beds lie, 
The dead are sleeping in the churchyard nigh ; 

The mild moon's beam 

O'er all doth stream, 
And life and death appear a mingling dream. 



NIGHTFALL. 37 

VI. 

Decay, that in my very breath doth creep, 
Thou surely art akin to this soft sleep, 

That shows the way 

To a bed of clay, 
Whose wakeless slumbers close the mortal day. 



And thus, with ceaseless roll, time's silent wave 
Lands me each night upon a mimic grave, 

Whose soft repose 

Hints, at life's close, — 
Death's fleets are cruising where life's current flows, 



38 



POOK TRAVELLERS ALL. 



T)OOR travellers all, 
Both great and small, 
How thoughtlessly we play 

In a country 

Of mortality, 
Where never a man can stay. 



Our birth is but 

A starting foot 
Upon the fatal road, 

Where Death keeps watch 

O'er life to snatch 
The jewel back to G-od. 



POOR TRAVELLERS ALL. 39 

in. 

Time's sickle reaps, 

In restless sweeps, 
The harvest of decay ; 

On every ground 

His sheaves are bound, 
And garnered in the clay. 



Though hints divine, 

In symbols fine, 
With warnings strew the way, — 

Beseeching us, 

And teaching us 
The danger of delay, — 



We dally still, 
With fitful will, 
Among delusive joys ; 



40 POOR TRAVELLERS ALL. 

Heeding them not, 
Except for sport, 
As children play with toys. 



VI. 

We romp and run 

Mad in the sun, 
And murmuring at the cloud : 

And where's the breast 

That seems at rest 
Until it's in a shroud % 



Thus glides away 

Life's little day, 
In giddiness and glooms ; 

And never a one 

Can feel it's gone, 
Until his bed-time comes. 



POOR TRAVELLERS ALL. 41 

VIII. 

Poor travellers all. 

Both great and small, 
So thoughtlessly we play, 

In a country 

Of mortality, 
Where never a man can stay, 



42 



TO A YOUNG LADY 



WHO LENT ME AN OLD BOOK. 



rpHIS learned volume doth not tell 

A story so divine, 
Nor point a moral half so well 
As that young face of thine. 



Thou shouldst have sent a rose to me, 
With morning dew bestarred ; 

It would have better likened thee, — 
Sweet rosebud of the bard ! 



TO A YOUNG LADY. 43 



in. 



But mornings fly, and dewdrops dry, 

And many a lovely rose 
Is plucked, and thrown neglected by, 

Before it fairly blows. 



IT. 



Sweet maid, thy budding time is fair ; 

So may thy blooming be ; 
And never blighting blast of care 

Untimely wither thee. 



Flower on, in gladness, free from stain, 

Until the autumn's past ; 
And, like a fading rose, retain 

Thy sweetness to the last. 



44 



THE MAN OF THE TIME. 



TE is a sterling nobleman 

Who lives the truth he knows ; 
Who dreads the slavery of sin, 
And fears no other foes. 

ii. 
Who scorns the folly of pretence ; 

Whose mind from cant is free ; 
Who values men for worth and sense, 

And hates hypocrisy. 

in. 
Who glows with love that's free from taint 

Whose heart is kind and brave ; 
Who feels that he was neither meant 

For tyrant nor for slave. 



THE MAN OF THE TIME. 45 

IT. 

Who loves the ground, where'er he roam, 

That's trod by human feet,* 
And strives to make the world a home 

Where peace and justice meet. 

v. 
Whose soul to clearer heights can climb. 

Above the shows of things, — 
Cleaving the mortal bounds of time 

On meditative wings. 

VI. 

Malice can never mar his fame ) 

A heaven-crowned king is he :— 
His robe, a pure immortal aim ; 

His throne, eternity. 



46 



LINES. 

/^v H ! whatever betide thee, 
Thou need not despair ; 
Where conscience doth guide thee 
Thy safety is there. 

If fortune delight thee, 

Beware its alloy ; 
And should it despite thee, 

Endure it with joy. 

For, to win its caressing 's 

A dangerous gain ; 
And Heaven's best blessings 

Are hidden in pain. 



LINES. 47 

While youth and health bless thee, 

Remember the day 
When they'll stretch thee and dress thee 

To sleep in the clay. 



Do good unto all men, 
Contented, unknown, 

Expecting thy payment 
From Heaven alone. 



48 



OLD MAN'S SONG. 



/"VH i sweetly the morning of childhood 

Awoke ine to careless delight ; 
And blithe as a bird of the wildwood 

I played in its beautiful light ; 
The world was a magical treasure 

That filled me with wonder and joy; 
And I fluttered from pleasure to pleasure, 
Delighted — I couldn't tell why : 
If I thought of to-morrow, 
I dreamt not of sorrow ; 
And I smiled as the day went by. 



OLD man's song. 49 

II. 

Gay youth, with its glittering hours, 

Came frolicking on, full of glee, 
Where hope's charming sunlighted bowers 

Were thickly in blossom for me ; — 
My heart was a harp whose emotion 

Awoke to all beautiful things, 
And love was the dearest devotion 

That played in its tremulous strings : 
So, I dallied, delighted, 
And carelessly slighted 

Old Time and his rustling wings. 



in. 

Now, the noontide of life has gone by me, 
The visions of morning have died ; 

And the world is beginning to try me 
With struggles that chasten my pride ;— 

E 



50 OLD man's song. 

As the twilight of time, softly stealing, 
Comes o'er me with shadows of grey, 
I feel the sad truth now revealing, — 
It draws to the close of the day; 
And thoughtfully eyeing 
The past, I sit sighing, 
And wondering how long I shall stay. 



SONGS 



IN THE LANCASHIRE DIALECT. 



E 2 



COME WHOAM TO THY CHILDER 

AN' ME. 



A W'VE just mended th' fire wi' a cob ; 

Owd Swaddle has brought thi new shoon ; 
There's some nice bacon-collops o'th hob, 

An a quart o' ale posset i'th oon ; 
Aw've brought thi top-cwot, does ta know, 

For th' rain's comin deawn very dree ; 
An' th' har'stone's as white as new snow ;— 
Come whoam to thi childer an' me. 



54 COME WHO AM TO 

ii. 

When aw put little Sally to bed, 

Hoo cried, 'cose her feyther weren't theer ; 
So. aw kissed th' little thing, an' aw said 

Thae'd bring her a ribbin fro th' fair ; 
An' aw gav her her doll, an' some rags, 

An' a nice little white cotton bo' ; 
An' aw kissed her again ; but hoo said 

At hoo wanted to kiss thee an' o\ 



in. 

An' Dick, too, aw'd sich wark wi' him, 

Afore aw could get him up stairs ; 
Thae towd him thae'd bring him a drum, 

He said, when he're sayin' his prayers ; 
Then he looked i' my face, an' he said, 

" Has th' boggarts taen houd o' my dad f 
An' he cried till his e'en were quite red ; — 

He likes thee some weel, does yon lad ! 



THY CHILDER AN ; ME. 55 

IY. 

At th' lung-length, aw geet 'em laid still ; 

An' aw hearken' t folk's feet at went by ; 
So aw iron't o' my clooas reet weel, 

An' aw hanged 'em o'th maiden to dry ; 
When aw'd mended thi stockin's an' shirts, 

Aw sit deawn to knit i' my cheer, 
An' aw rayley did feel rather hurt, — 

Mon, aw'm one-ly when theaw artn't theer. 



" Aw've a drum an' a trumpet for Dick ; 

AwVe a yard o' blue ribbin for Sal ; 
Aw've a book fall o' babs ; an' a stick 

An' some 'bacco an' pipes for mysel ; 
Aw've brought thee some coffee an' tay, — 

Iv thae'liy^eZ i' my pocket, thae'll see ; 
An' aw've bought tho a new cap to-day, — 

But, aw olez bring summat for thee I 



56 COME WHO AM TO THY CHILDER AN' ME. 

VI. 

" God bless tho, my lass ; aw'll go whoain, 

An' aw'll kiss thee an' th' childer o' reawnd ; 
Thae knows, that wheerever aw roam, 

Aw'm fain to get back to th' owd greawnd. 
Aw can do wi' a crack o'er a glass ; 

Aw can do wi' a bit ov a spree ; 
But aw've no gradely comfort, my lass, 

Except wi' yon childer an' thee ! " 



57 



WHAT AILS THEE, MY SON EOBIN? 



TTTH AT ails thee, my son Robin 1 

My heart is sore for thee ; 
Thi cheeks are grooin' thinner, 

An' th' ieet has laft thi e'e ; 
Theaw trails abeawt so lonesome, 

An' looks so pale at morn ; 
God bless tho, lad, aw'm soory 

To see tho so forlorn ! 



58 WHAT AILS THEE, 

ii. 

Tki fuutstep's sadly awter't. — 

Aw used to know it weel, — 
Neaw, arto fairy- strucken ; 

Or, arto gradely ill ? 
Or, kasto bin wi' th 5 witckes 

I'tk cloof, at deep o'tk neet ? 
Come, tell mo, Robin, tell mo, 

For summat isna reet ! 



" Neaw, motker, dunnut fret yo ; 

Aw am not like mysel ; 
But, 'tisna lung o'tk feeorin' 

Tkat kan to do wi'tk deil ; 
Tkere's nougkt at tkus could daunt mo, 

I'tk cloof, by neet nor day ; — 
It's yon blue e'en o' Mary's : — - 

Tkey taen my life away ! " 



MY SON ROBIN? 59 

IT. 

il Aw deawt aw've done wi' comfort 

To th' day that aw niun dee, 
For th' place hoo sets her fuut on, 

It's fairy greawnd to me ; 
An' oh, it's useless speykin', 

When kindness meets wi' pride ; 
Bat, when a true heart's breykin', 

It's very hard to bide !" 



Neaw, God be wi' tho, Robin ; 

Just let her have her way ; 
Hoo'll never meet thy marrow, 

For mony a summer day ; 
Aw're just same wi' thi feyther, 

When first he spoke to me ; 
So, go thi ways an' whistle, 

An' th' lass'll come to thee ! 



60 



GOD BLESS THESE POOR FOLK! 






/^i OD bless these poor folk that are strivin' 

By means that are honest an' true, 
For somethin' to keep 'em alive in 

This world that we're scramblin' through ; 
As th' life ov a mon's full o' feightin', 

A mortal that wants to do fair, 
Should never be grudged ov his hey tin', 
For th' hardest o'th battle's his share. 
Chorus. — As th' life ov a mon. 






GOD BLESS THESE POOR FOLK! 61 

II. 
This world's kin to trouble ; i'th best on't, 

There's mony sad changes come reawnd ; 
We wandern abeawt to find rest on't, 

An' th' worm yammers for us i'th greawnd ; 
May he that'll wortch while he's able, 

Be never long hungry nor dry ; 
An' th' childer at sit at his table, — - 

God bless 'em wi' plenty, say I. 

Chorus. — As th' life ov a mon. 

in. 
An' he that can feel it a pleasur' 

To leeten misfortin an' pain, — - 
May his pantry be olez full measur', 

To cut at, and come to again ; 
May God bless his cup and his cupbort, 

A theawsan for one that he gives ; 
An' his heart be a bumper o' comfort, 

To th' very last minute he lives ! 

Chorus. — As th' life ov a mon. 



62 GOD BLESS THESE POOR FOLK ! 

IT. 

An' he that scorns ale to his victual 

Is welcome to let it alone ; 
There's some can be wise with a little, 

An' some that are foolish wi' noan ; 
An' some are so quare i' their natur, 

That nought wi' their stomachs agree ; 
But, he that would liefer drink wayter. 

Shall never be stinted by me. 

Chorus. — As th' life ov a mon. 

v. 
One likes to see hearty folk wortchin', 

An' weary folk bavin' a rest ; 
One likes to yer poor women singin' 

To th' little things laid o' their breast 
Good cooks are my favourite doctors ; 

Good livers my parsons shall be ; 
An' ony poor craytur at's clemmin, 

May come have a meawthful wi' me. 
Chorus. — As th' life ov a mon. 



GOD BLESS THESE POOR FOLK ! 63 

VI. 

Owd Time, — he's a troublesome codger, — 

Keeps nudgin' us on to decay, 
An' whispers, " Yo re nobbut a lodger ; 

Get ready for goin' away ;" 
Then let's ha' no skulkin' nor sniv'lin', 

Whatever misfortins befo' ; 
God bless him that fends for his livin, 

An' houds up his yed through it o' ! 
Chorus. — As th' life ov a mon. 



64 



COME, MARY, LINK THI ARM r MINE. 



/^\ OME, Mary, link thi arm i' mine. 

An' lilt away wi' me \ 
An' dry that tremblin' drop o' brine. 

Fro th' corner o' thi e'e ; 
There's a little cot beside yon spring, 

An' iv thae'll share't wi' me, 
Aw'll buy tho th' prattist gowden ring 
That ever theaw did see ! 
Chorus. — Come, Mary, link thi arm i' mine. 






COME, MARY, LINK THI AEM f MINE. [ 65 

II. 
My fey tlier's gan mo forty peawnd, 

I' silver an' i' gowd ; 
An' a boniiy bit o' garden greawnd, 

O'th mornin' side o'th' fowd ; 
An' a honsome Bible, clen an' new, 

To read for days to come ; — 
There's lyevs for writin' names in, too, 

Like th' owd un at's.awhoam. 
Gliorus. — Come, Mary, link thi arm i' mine. 

in. 
Eawr Jenny's bin a-buyin' in, 

An' every day hoo brings 
Knives an' forks, an' pots ; or irons 

For smoothin' caps an' things ; 
My gronny's sent a kist o' drawers, 

Sunday clooas to keep; 
An' little Fanny's bought a glass, 

Where thee an' me can peep. 
Chorus. — Come, Mary, link thi arm i' mine. 

F 



66 COME, MARY, 

IT. 

Eawr Turn has sent a bacon-flitch ; 

Eawr Jem a load o' coals ; 
Eawr Charlie's bought some pickters, an' 

He's hanged 'em npo th' woles ; 
wd Posy's white-weshedth' cottage through ; 

Eawr Matty's made it sweet ; 
An' Jack's gan me his Jarman flute, 

To play by th' fire at neet ! 
Chorus. — Come, Mary, link thi arm i' mine. 



There's cups an' saucers; porritch-pons, 

An' tables, greyt an' smo' ; 
There's brushes, mugs, an' ladin-cans; 

An eight day's clock an' o' ; 
There's a cheer for thee, an' one for me, 

An' one i' every nook ; 
Thi mother's has a cushion on't — 

It's th' nicest cheer i'th rook. 
Chorus. — Come, Mary, link thi arm i' mine. 



LINK THI ARM t MINE. 67 

VI. 

My mother's gan me th' four-post bed, 

Wi' curtains to't an' o' ; 
An' pillows, sheets, an' bowsters, too, 

As white as driven snow ; 
It isn't stuffed wi' fither-deawn, 

But th' flocks are clen an' new ; 
Hoo says there's honest folk i'th teawn, 

That's made a warse un do. 
Chorus. — Come, Mary, link thi arm i' mine. 

vn. 

Aw peeped into my cot last neet ; 

It made me hutchin' fain ; 
A bonny fire were winkin' breet 

I' every window-pane ; 
Aw marlocked upo th' white hearth-stone, 

An' drummed o'th kettle lid ; 
An' sung, " My neest is snug an' sweet ; 

Aw'll go and fotch my brid !" 
Chorus. — Come, Mary, link thi arm i' mine. 
f 2 



68 



CHIBRUR 



"VrOUISTG Chirrup wur a mettled eowt ; 

His heart an' limbs wur true ; 
At foot race, or at wrostlin'-beawt, 

Or aught he buckled to ; 
At wark or play, reet gallantly 

He laid into his game ; 
An' he're very fond o' singin'-brids'— 

That's heaw he geet his name. 



CHIRRUP. 69 

ii. 

He're straight as ony pickin'-rod, 

An' limber as a snig ; 
An' th' heartist cock o' th' village clod, 

At every country rig ; 
His shinin' e'en wur clear an' bine ; 

His face wur frank an' bowd ; 
An' th' yure abeawt bis monly broo 

Wur crispt i' curls o' gowd ! 



Young Chirrup donned his clinker't shoon, 

An' startin' off to th' fair, 
He swore by th' leet o'th harvest moon, 

He'd have a marlock there ; 
He poo'd a sprig fro th' hawthorn-tree, 

That blossomed by the way ; — 
" Iv ony mon says wrang to me, 

Aw'll tan his hide to-day !" 



70 CHIKRUP. 

IT. 

Full sorely mony a lass would sigh, 

That chanced to wander near, 
An' peep into his e'en, to spy 

Iv love wur lurkin' theer ; 
So fair an' free he stept o'th green, 

An' trollin' eawt a song, 
Wi' leetsome heart, an' twinklin' e'en, 

Went chirrupin' along. 



v. 

Young Chirrup woo'd a village maid, — 

An' hoo wur th' flower ov o', — 
Wi' kisses kind, i'th woodlan' shade, 

An' whispers soft an' low ; 
I' Matty's ear 'twur th' sweetest chime 

That ever mortal sung ; 
An' Matty's heart beat pleasant time 

To th' music ov his tung. 



CHIRRUP. 71 

VI. 

Oh, th' kindest mates, this world within, 

Mun ha' their share o' pain ; 
But, iv this pair could life begin, 

They'd buckle to again ; 
For, though he're hearty, blunt, an' tough, 

An' Matty sweet and mild, 
For three-score year, through smooth and 
rough, 

Hoo led him like a child. 



72 



THE DULE'S V THIS BONNET 0' MINK 



HHHE dule's i' this bonnet o' mine ; 

My ribbins'll never be reet ; 
Here, Mally, aw'm like to be .fine, 

For Jamie'll be comin' to-neet ; 
He met me i'th lone t other day, — 

Aw're gooin' for wayter to th' well, — 
An' lie begged that aw'd wed him i' May ; — 

Bi'th mass, iv he'll let me, aw will. 



THE DULE'S i' THIS BONNET 0* MINE. 73 

II. 

When he took my two honds into his, 

Good Lord, heaw they trembled between ; 
An' aw durstn't look up in his face, 

Becose on him seein' my e'en ; 
My cheek went as red as a rose ; — ■ 

There's never a mortal can tell 
Heaw happy aw felt ; for, thea knows, 

One couldn't ha' axed him theirsel'. 



But th' tale wur at th' end o' my tung, — 

To let it eawt wouldn't be reet, — - 
For aw thought to seem forrud wur wrung ; 

So aw towd him aw'd tell him to-neet ; 
But, Mally, thae knows very weel, — 

Though it isn't a thing one should own, — 
If aw'd th' pikein' o'th world to mysel', 

Aw'd oather ha' Jamie or noan. 



74 THE DULE'S l' THIS BONNET O* MINE. 
IT. 

Neaw, Mally, aw've towd tho my mind ; 

What would to do iv 'twur thee 1 
" Aw'd tak him just while he're inclined, 

An' a farrantly bargain he'd be ; 
For Jamie's as greadly a lad 

As ever stept eawt into th' sun ; — 
Go, jump at thy chance, an' get wed, 

An' may th' best o'th job when it's done !" 



v. 

Eh, dear, but it's time to be gwon ! 

Aw shouldn't like Jamie to wait, — 
Aw connut for shame be to soon, 

An' aw wouldn't for th' world be to late ; 
Aw'm o' ov a tremble to th' heel, — 

Dost think at my bonnet'll do ? — 
" Be off, lass, — thae looks very weel ; — 

He wants noan o'th bonnet, thae foo !" 



ro 



TICKLE TIMES. 



TJEEE'S Kobin looks fyerfully gloomy, 

An' Jamie keeps starin' at th' greawnd, 
An' thin kin' o'th table at's empty, 

An' th' little things yammerin' reawnd ; 
It looks very dark just afore us, 

But, keep your hearts eawt o' your shoon, 
Though clouds may be thickenm o'er us, 

There's lots o' blue heaven aboon ! 



76 TICKLE TIMES. 

II. 

But, when a mon's able an' willin', 

An' never a stroke to be bad, — 
An' clemmin' for want ov a shillin', — 

No wonder tbat be should be sad ; 
It troubles his heart to keep seein' 

His little birds feedin' o'th air ; 
An' it feels very hard to be deein', 

An' never a mortal to care. 



This life's sich a quare little travel, — 

A marlock wi' sun an' wi' shade, — 
An' then, on a bowster o' gravel, 

They lay'n us i' bed wi' a spade ; 
It's no use o' peawtin' an' fratchin', — 

As th' whirligig's twirlin' areawnd, 
Have at it again ; an' keep scratchin' 

As lung as your ved's upo greawnd ! 



TICKLE TIMES. 77 

IT. 

Iv one could but grope i'th' inside on't, 

There's trouble i' every heart • 
An' thoose that'll th' biggest o'th pride on't, 

Oft leeten o' th' keenest o'th smart. 
Then, lads, as whatever comes to us, 

Let's patiently hondle er share ; 
For there's mony a fine suit o' clooas, 

That covers a murderin' care. 



There's danger i' every station, — - 

I'th palace as much as i'th cot ; 
There's hanker i' every condition, 

An' canker i' every lot ; 
There's folk that are weary o' livin' 

That never fear't hunger nor cowd; 
An' there's mony a miserly nowmun, 

That's deed ov a surfeit o' gowd. 



78 TICKLE TIMES. 

VI. 

One feels, neaw that times are so nippin', 

He gwos to a troublesome schoo, 
That slaves like a horse for his livin', 

An' flings it away like a foo ; 
But, as pleasur's sometimes a misfortin, 

An trouble, sometimes a good thing, 
Though we live'n o'th' floor, same as layrocks, 

We'n go up, like layrocks, to sing ! 



79 



JAMIE'S FROLIC. 



/^vNE neet aw crope whoam, when my weighvin' 

were o'er, 
To brush mo, an' wesh mo, an' fettle my yure ; 
Then, slingin' abeawt, wi' my heart i' my shoon, 
Kept tryin' my hond at a bit ov a tune, 
As Mally sit rockin', 
An' darnin' a stockin', 
An' tentin' her bakin' i'th o'on. 



SO jamie's frolic. 



Th' chylt were asleep, an' my clooas were reet ; 

Th' baggin' were ready, an' o' lookin' sweet ; 

But, aw're mazy, an' nattle, an' fasten't to tell 

What the chile it could be that're ailin' mysel', — 
An' it made me so naught, 
That, o' someheaw, aw thought, 
" Aw could just like a snap at eawr Mall." 



Poor lass ! hoo were kinder becose aw were quare ; 

" Jamie, come sattle thisel' in a cheer ; 

Thae's looked very yonderly mony a day ; 

It's grievin' to see heaw thae'rt wearin' away,— 
An' trailin' abeawt, 
Like a hen at's i'fch meawt j— 
Do, pritho, poo up to tin tay !" 



jamie's feolic. 81 

IV. 

"Thae wants some new flannels, — thae's getten a 

cowd, — 
Thae'rt noather so ugly, my lad, nor so owd, — 
But, thae'rt makin' tinsel' into nought but a slave, 
Wi' weigh vin', an' thinkin', an' tryin' to save ; — 

Get summat to heyt, 

Or thae'll go eawt o' seet, — 
For thae'rt wortchin' thisel' into th' grave." 



Thinks I, " Th' lass's reet, an' aw houd with her wit ;" 
So, aw said, — for aw wanted to cheer her a bit, — 
" Owd crayter, aw've noan made my mind up to dee, — 
A frolick '11 just be the physic for me ! 

Aw'll see some fresh places, 

An' look at fresh faces, — 
An' go have a bit ov a spree ! " 

G 



82 JAMIE'S FROLIC. 

VI. 

Then, bumpin' an' splashin' her kettle went deawn ; 
" Tth name o' good Katty, Jem, wheer arto beawn ? 
An' what sort o' faces dost want, — con to tell ? 
Aw deawt thae'rb for makin' a foo o' thisel', — 

The dule may tent th' o'on ; 

Iv aw go witheawt shoon, 
Aw'll see where thae gwos to mysel' ! " 






Thinks I, " Th' fat's i'th fire, — aw mnn make it no 

wur, — 
For there's plenty o' feightin' to do eawt o'th dur, — 
So, aw'll talk very prattily to her, as heaw, 
Or else hoo'll have houd o' my toppin in neaw ;" — 

An', bith leet in her e'en, 

It were fair to be sin 
That hoo're ready to rive me i' teaw. 



JAMIE'S FROLIC. 83 

Till. 

Iv truth mun be towd, aw began to be fain 

To study a bit o' my cwortin' again ; 

So aw said to her, " Mally, this world's rough enoo ! 

To fo' eawt wi' thoose one likes best, winnut do, — 
It's a very sore smart, 
An' it sticks long i'th heart," — 
An', egad, aw said nought boh what's true ! 



IX. 

Lord, heaw a mon talks when his heart's in his tung ! 
Aw roos't her, poor lass, an' shewed hoo wur 

wrung, 
Till hoo took mo bith hond, with a tear in her e'e, 
An' said, " Jamie, there's nobry as tender as thee ! 
Forgi mo, lad, do ; 
For aw'm nobbut a foo, — 
A n' bide wi' mo, neaw, till aw dee !" 
g2 



84 jamie's feolic. 

X. 

So, we'n bide one another, whatever may come ; 

For, there's no peace i'th world iv there's no peace 

awhoam ; 
An' neaw, when a random word gies her some pain, 
Or makes her a little bit crossish i'th grain, 

Sunshine comes back, 

As soon as aw crack 
0' beginning my cwortin' again. 



SONGS, ETC. 



THE MOORLANDS. 



CJ ING hey for the moorlands, wild, lonely, and stern, 

Where the moss creepeth softly all under the fern ; 

Where the heather-flower sweetens the lone highland 

lea, 
And the mountain winds whistle so fresh and so free ! 

I've wandered o'er landscapes embroidered with flowers, 

The richest, the rarest, in greenest of bowers, 

Where the throstle's sweet vesper, at summer day's 

close, 
Shook the coronal dews on the rim of the rose ; 
But oh for the hills where the heather-cock springs 
From his nest in the bracken, with dew on his wings ! 
Sing, hey for the moorlands ! 



88 THE MOORLANDS. 

II. 

I've lingered by streamlets that water green plains, 

I've mused in the sunlight of shady old lanes, 

Where the mild breath of evening came sweetly and 

slow 
From green nooks where bluebells and primroses grow ; 
But oh the bold hills that look up at the skies, 
Where the green brackens wave to the wind as it flies ! 
Sing, hey for the moorlands ! 



in. 
Away with the pride and the fume of the town, 
And give me a lodge in the heatherland brown ; 
Oh there, to the schemes of the city unknown, 
Let me wander with freedom and nature, alone ; 
Where wild hawks with glee on the hurricane sail, 
And bold crags delight in the rush of the gale ! 
Sing, hey for the moorlands ! 



THE MOORLANDS. 89 

IV. 

In glens which resound to the waterfall's song 
My spirit should play, the wild echoes among : 
I'd climb the dark steep to my lone mountain home, 
And, heartspme and poor, o'er the solitude roam ; 
And the keen winds that harp on the heathery lea 
Should sing the grand anthem of freedom to me ! 
Sing, hey for the moorlands ! 



90 



KEEN BLOWS THE NOBTH WIND. 



T7" EEN blows the north wind ; the woodlands are 
bare; 

The snow-shroud lies white on the flowerless lea ; 
The red-breast is wailing the death of the year, 

As he cowers his wing in the frozen haw-tree. 



The leaves of the forest, now summer is o'er, 

Lie softly asleep in the lap of decay ; 
And the wildflower rests on the snow-covered shore, 

Till the cold night of winter has wandered away. 



KEEN BLOWS THE NORTH WIND. 91 

in. 
Oh, where are the small birds that sang in yon bowers 
When last summer smiled on the green- mantled 
plain ? 
Oh, where do they shelter in winter's bleak hours 1 
Will they come back with spring, to delight me 
again ? 

IV. 

But I may be gone, never more to behold 

The wildflowers peep, when the winter has fled ; 

The chill drifts of sorrow the wanderer may fold, 
And the sunshine of spring melt the snow on his 
bed. 

v. 

But come, ye sweet warblers, and sport in the spray, 
Whose tender revival I never may see ; 

The young buds will leap to your welcoming lay, — 
'Twill cheer the sad-hearted, as oft it cheered me. 



92 KEEN BLOWS THE NOKTH WIND. 

VI. 

And should ye, returning, then find me at rest, 

Stay sometimes, and sing near the grave of a friend ; 

Drop a rosemary leaf on his turf-covered breast, 
And rejoice that his troublesome journey's at end. 



93 



THE MOORLAND WITCH. 



HP HERE lives a lass on yonder moor- — 

She wears a gown of green ; 
She's handsome, young, and sprightly, 

With a pair of roguish e'en : 
She's graceful as the mountain doe 

That snuffs the forest air ; 
And she brings the smell of the heather-bell 

In the tresses of her hair. 



94 THE MOORLAND WITCH. 

ii. 
'Twas roaming careless o'er the hills, 

As sunlight left the sky, 
That first I met this moorland beauty 

Bringing home her kye : 
Her native grace, her lovely face, 

The pride of art outshone • — 
I wondered that so sweet a flower 

Should blossom thus alone. 



in. 
Alas, that ever I should meet 

Those glancing eyes of blue, 
That round about my thoughtless heart 

Their strong enchantment threw. 
I could not dream that falsehood lurked 

In such an angel smile ; 
I could not fly the fate that lured 

With such a lovelv wile. 



THE MOORLAND WITCH. 95 

IV. 

And when she comes into the vale, 

To try her beauty's power, 
She'll leave a spell on many a heart 

That fluttered free before. 
But, oh, beware her witching smile, — 

'Tis but a fowler's snare ; 
She's fickle as the mountain wind 

That frolics with her hair ! 



96 



CHRISTMAS SONG. 



T1S" the dark-clouded sky no star snows a gleam ; 

The drift-laden gale whistles wild in the tree ; 
The ice-mantle creeps o'er the murmuring stream, 

That glittering runs through the snow-covered lea ; 
But; hark ! the old bells fling the news to the wind ! — 

Good Christians awake to their genial call • — 
The gale may blow on, we'll be merry and kind ; — 
Blithe yule and a happy new year to us all ! 
Bring in the green holly, the box and the yew, 

The fir and the laurel, all sparkling with rime ; 
Hang up to the ceiling the mistletoe-bough, 
And let us be jolly another yule time ! 



CHEISTMAS SONG. 97 

ii. 
While, garnished with plenty, together we meet, 

In carolling joy, as the glad moments flee, 
Thus sheltered away from the frost and the sleet, 

With friends all around us in festival glee, 
We'll still keep the heavenly lesson in mind, — 

A gentle Redeemer was born at this tide ; 
The wind may blow keenly, but we will be kind, 
And think of the poor folk that shiver outside. 
Bring in the green holly, the box and the yew, 

The fir and the laurel, all sparkling with rime ; 
Hang up to the ceiling the mistletoe-bough, 
And let us be jolly another yule time ! 



in. 
He's a cur who can bask in the fire's cheery light, 

And hearken, unheeded, the winter wind blow, 
And care not a straw for the comfortless wight 

That wanders about in the frost and the snow ; 

H 



98 CHRISTMAS SONG. 

But we'll think of the mournful the while we are glad ; 

Our hearts shall be kind as the winter is keen ; 
And we'll share our good cheer with the poor and the 
sad, 
That sorrow and struggle in corners unseen. 
Bring in the green holly, the box and the yew, 

The fir and the laurel, all sparkling with rime ; 
Hang up to the ceiling the mistletoe-bough, 
And let us be jolly another yule time ! 



99 



ALL ON A ROSY MORN OF JUNE. 



A LL on a rosy morn of June, 

When farmers make their hay, 
Down by yon bonny woodland green 

A milking maid did stray ; 
And oh, but she was sweet and fair, — 

The flower of all the vale ; 
In her hand a wild white rose she bare, 
And on her head a pail. 
h2 



100 ALL ON A KOSY MORN OF JUNE. 

ii. 
Across the fields, as she did rove, 

The pretty maiden sang 
A plaintive lay of tender love, 

That through the valley rang : 
Blithe as a linnet on the spray, 

Among the wildwood green, 
She lilted on her flowery way, — 

And vanished from the scene. 



When next I saw that pleasant vale — 

Twelve moons had wandered by — 
A matron told her hapless tale 

With tear-drops in her eye ; 
For there had been, with winsome wil 

A careless-hearted lad, 
And plucked the flower whose lovely smile 

Made all the valley glad. 






ALL ON A ROSY MORN OF JUNE. 101 

IV. 

The woods were gay and green again ; 

The sun was smiling on ; 
But the charmer of the rural glen 

For evermore was gone : 
Now, mouldering near the churchyard way, 

All stricken in her pride, 
The white rose of the valley lay, 

With an infant by her side. 



102 



YE GALLANT MEN OF ENGLAND. 



T7E gallant men of England, 

Of nobles' races bred, 
Remember how your fathers 

For liberty have bled; 
Stand to your ancient banners, 

In a thousand battles torn — 
The banners of Great Britain, 

To a thousand victories borne ! 



YE GALLANT MEN OF ENGLAND. 103 

II. 
When flags of tyrants, flying, 

Insult the air again, 
And freedom's sons are dying 

Upon the bloody plain, 
Rush to the gory havoc 

With all your native might, 
And carve your way to justice, 

Or perish for the right. 



in. 

Ye sons of ancient heroes, 

And heirs of England's fame, 
Wherever danger threatens 

Be worthy of your name ; 
And hurl each bold aggressor 

Into his native lair, 
To rule the slaves and traitors 

That crawl around him there. 



104 YE GALLANT MEN OF ENGLAND. 

IV. 

Though knaves and cowards tremble 

Beneath despotic sway, 
And fools to wily tyrants 

Resign, a willing prey, 
The race of island lions, 

Bred by the Western main, 
The freedom won by battle 

By battle can maintain. 



105 



GLAD WELCOME TO MOEN'S DEWY 
HOUES. 



/^1 LAD welcome to morn's dewy hours 
The birds warble blithe to the gale, 
While the sun shimmers through the green bowers, 

And plays with the stream in the vale ; 
But, as clouds o'er the heavens come streaming, 

Then silence, with shade, creeps along : 
They pass, — and again the woods, gleaming, 

At once wake to sunlight and song. 



106 WELCOME TO MORN'S DEWY HOURS. 

II. 
So I sport, till the storm gathers o'er me ; 

Then, pensively hushed in the gloom, 
My heart looks around and before me 

For something the shade to illume ; 
Yet though, folding the wings of my gladness, 

I'm mute in the hurricane's howl, 
Thou com'st, through the gloomiest sadness, 

A sunbeam of joy to my soul. 






Fair star of remembrance, endearing, 

Still lend me thy brilliant ray, 
My wanderings chastening aod cheering, 

Till life, with its light, fade away; 
And, oft as my pathway thou greet est, 

I'll waken my harp-string to thee, 
And sing how the brightest and sweetest 

Are always the swiftest to flee. 



107 



ALAS ! HOW HARD IT IS TO SMILE. 



A LAS ! how hard it is to smile 
When all within is sad ; 
And rooted sorrow to beguile 
By mingling with the glad. 
The heart that swells with grief disdains 

Pretension's mean alloy, 
And feels far less its bitterest pains 
Than mockeries of joy. 



108 ALAS ! HOW HAED IT IS TO SMILE. 
II. 
How few among the thoughtless crowds 

Can tell the jealous care 
With which a gentle spirit shrouds 

Its pangs from worldly glare. 
The harp of sorrow wooes the touch 

Of sympathy alone ; 
Its trembling fibres shrink from such 

As cannot feel their tone. 



in. 

The gay may sport upon the wave 

Of life's untroubled tides, — 
Like birds that warble on a grave, 

They dream not what it hides ; 
But pleasure's wretched masquerade 

Wakes sorrow's keenest throe ; — 
The saddest look is not so sad 

As the strained smile of woe. 



109 



GOD BLESS THEE, OLD ENGLAND ! 



/^ OD bless thee, old England, the home of the free ; 

A garden of roses, begirt by the sea ! 
The wild waves that fondle thy darling green shore 
Shall sing thy proud story till time be no more ; 
And nations unborn, looking over the wave, 
Shall tell of the isle of the free and the brave, 
Where liberty's battle, through ages of old, 
Was fought in the hearts of the just and the bold ; — 
Old England, the Queen of the sea ! 



110 GOD BLESS THEE, OLD ENGLAND! 

II. 
May truth ever flourish thy children among ; 
And deeds that awaken the spirit of song 
Inspire future bards with emotion divine, 
Till earth has no anthem so noble as thine ! 
Green cradle of manliness, beauty, and worth ! 
May thy name be a watchword of joy in the earth 
When I have long mouldered beneath the green sod,- 
A country devoted to freedom and God ; — 

Old England, the Queen of the sea ! 






Ill 



OH ! WEAVE A GARLAND FOR MY BROW. 

I, 

/^\ H ! weave a garland for my brow, 
Of roses and of rue ; 

tFor once I loved a bonny lass, — 
Alas, she was not true ! 
But when she slighted all my grief, 

I knew that grief was vain, 
And I hid the wound that pained my heart, 
Until it healed again. 



112 oh! weave a gakland. 

II. 
Then, gentle lover, pine no more, — 

Thy tenderness is blind ; 
Sighing to one whose heart is cold 

Will never make her kind. 
Go, take some comfort to thy breast - 

The world is fair to see — 
And on some genial bosom rest 

Whose pulses beat for thee. 



113 



TO THE SPUING WIND. 



Q WEET minstrel of the scented spring, 

Ten thousand silver bells, 
To welcome thee, are all a-swing, 

Upon the dewy fells : 
To sing with thee, I should be fain, 

Thou harper blithe and free ! 
But love has bound me with a chain, 
That wrings the heart of me. 
I 



in 



TO THE SPRING WIND. 



Oh, hasten to my love, and tell 

Her how she makes me pine ; 
And ask her if she thinks it well 

To slight a heart like mine ; 
For if my suit her scorn doth move, 

It shall no longer be, — 
Although I know she's made for love, 

And I wish that she loved me. 



115 



OH! HAD SHE BEEN A LOWLY MAID. 



AH ! had she been a lowly maid 
That stole this heart of mine, 
She would have filled the humblest shade 

With radiance divine : — 
The moon of beauty's starry skies, 

She glides serenely fair, 
Absorbing in her gleaming eyes 
The brightest planet there. 
i2 



116 OH ! HAD SHE BEEN A LOWLY MAID. 

n. 
Oh ! were she but a flower of spring 

Upon the dewy lea, 
To watch its lovely blossoming 

My heart's delight would be ; 
And when its leaves began to fade, 

Their fading I would moan ; 
And treasure up its sacred dust 

To mingle with my own. 



117 



HERE'S TO MY NATIVE LAND. 



TTERE'S to my native land ; 

And here's to the heathery hills, 
Where the little birds sing on the blooming 
boughs, 
To the dancing moorland rills. 

ii. 
Oh, there is a pleasant cot, 

And it stands by a spreading tree, 
Where a kind old face has looked from the door 
Full many a time for me ; — 



118 here's to my native land. 

III. 
On the slope of a flowery dell, 
And hard by a rippling brook ; 
And it's oh for a peep at the chimney top, 
Or a glint of the chimney nook ! 



IV. 

And there is a still churchyard, 
Where many an old friend lies ; 
And I fain would sleep in my native ground 
At last, when they close my eyes. 



v. 
When summer days were fine, 
The lads of the fold and I 
Have roved the moors, till the harvest moon 
Has died in the morning sky. 






here's to my native land. 119 

VI. 

Oh, it's sweet in the leafy woods 
On a sunny summer's day; 
And I wish I was helping yon moorland lads 
To tumble their scented hay ! 



Though many a pleasant nook 
In many a land I've seen, 
I'd wander back to my own green hills, 
If the wide world lay between. 



VIII. 

They say there's bluer skies 
Across the foaming sea : — 
Each man that is born has a land of his own, 
And this is the land for me ! 



120 



WHEN DROWSY DAYLIGHT. 



TTTHEN drowsy Daylight's drooping e'e 

Closes o'er the fading lea, — 
When Evening hums his vesper song, 
And winking dews the meadow throng, 
I'll come to meet thee, Mary ! 



The lazy hours refuse to fly ; 
As gaudy day goes creeping by 
I count the minutes with a sigh, 
Until the hour of shade steals nigh, 
That brings me to my Mary. 



WHEN DROWSY DAYLIGHT. 121 

in. 
The flower is dear unto the lea, 
The blossom to the parent tree : — 
Thou'rt more than flower and leaf to me — 
This heart of mine, by love of thee, 
Must bloom or wither, Mary. 

IV. 

The summer woods are waving fair ; 
The cowslip scents the evening air ; 
The small bird woos its mate to share 
Its little nest and loving care : — 
Oh, be my own, my Mary ! 



122 



ALONE, UPON THE FLOWEEY PLAIN. 



A LONE, upon the flowery plain 
I rove, in solitary pain, 
Looking around the silent lea 
For something I shall never see. 



Yon hedge-row blossoms as before, 

And roses shade yon cottage door ; 

But oh, I miss those tresses fair, 

And the eyes that glowed with welcome thsre. 



ALONE, UPON THE FLOWEEY PLAIN. 123 

in. 
The streamlet runs in rippling pranks, 
Kissing the wild flower on its banks ; 
But mournfully I tread the shore, 
To which my love returns no more. 

IV. 

The lark aloft in sunny air 

Carols, as if my love was there ; 

And the wind goes by with mournful sound, 

Murmuring, "No more, on mortal ground." 



124 






WHAT MAKES YOUR LEAVES FALL 
DOWN? 



TTTHAT makes your leaves fall down, 

Ye drooping autumn flowers ? 
What makes your green go brown, 

Ye fading autumn bowers ? 
Oh, thou complaining gale, 

That wand'rest sad and lone, 
What sorrows swell the tale 

Of that funereal moan 1 



WHAT MAKES YOUR LEAVES FALL? 125 

II. 
Have ye felt love like mine, 

And met with like return, 
That ye do thus decline, 

And thus appear to mourn ? 
Ah, no ! content, methinks, 

Ye glide into decay, 
As gentle evening sinks, 

At close of summer dav. 



Fall down, ye leafy bowers ! 

And drift upon the gales ; 
Fade on, ye sleepy flowers ! 

It is my heart that wails ; 
Blow on, thou quiet wind ! 

It was a fancied moan — 
The echo of a mind 

That feels its pleasure gone. 



126 



THE WANDERER'S HYMN. 



TAPPY the heart that's simply pure ; 
Happy the heart that's nobly brave ; 
Happy is he that shuns the lure 

That winds like death round folly's slave. 



ii. 
Wandering in the worldly throng, 

The dust of earth still keeps us blind ; — 
The judgment's weak, the passions strong, 

The will is fitful as the wind. 



THE WANDERER'S HYMN. 127 

in. 
Disguised in joy's deceitful beams, 

A thousand dancing meteors ply 
About our path their demon-schemes, 

That glitter only to destroy. 

IV. 

Who can we ask for aid but Thee, 
Our only friend, our only guide ? 

What other counsellor have we 1 

Where else, oh ! where, can we abide 1 



Oh ! hear and help us while we pray, 
And travel with us all the way ! 

Oh ! hold our hands, and be our stay ! 
Oh ! set us right whene'er we stray ! 



128 






NOW SUMMER'S SUNLIGHT GLOWING. 



ATOWj summer's sunlight glowing, 

Streaks the woodland shade with gold ; 
And balmy winds are blowing 

Gently o'er the heather- wold ; 
Now sweet smells the bluebell, 

'Neath the valley's leafy screen ; 
And thick grows the wild rose, 

Clust'ring o'er the hedges green. 



NOW summer's sunlight. 129 

The graceful fern adorns the steep ; 

The smiling fields are flowered o'er ; 
The modest little daisies peep 

Like children at a mother's door ! 



ii. 
From dewy meadows springing, 

Yonder blinding skies among, 
The poet-lark is singing, 

As if his heart was made of song ! 
While gladly and madly 

In every grove the wild birds vie, 
All tingling and mingling 

In tipsy routs of lyric joy ! 
My throbbing heart with every part 

Is dancing to the chorus near, — 
The gush, the thrill, the wizard trill 

Like drops of water tinkling clear ! 

K 



130 NOW summer's sunlight. 

III. 
The cottage matron, knitting 

In her little garden, sings, 
As wild birds, round her flitting, 

Fan the blossom with their wings ; 
And twining, combining, 

The honeysuckle and the rose, 
Sweet shading and braiding, 

Round the winking lattice goes ; 
And wild bees through her flowers roam- 

The little happy buzzing thieves ! — 
Here and there, with busy hum, 

Rifling all their honeyed leaves. 



IV. 

Now, hamlet urchins roaming, 

All the sunny summer day, 
From dewy morn till gloaming 

Through the rustling wildwood stray ; 



NOW summer's sunlight. 131 

There blithely and lithely, 

By warbling brook and sylvan grot, 
They ramble and gambol, 

All the busy world forgot ; — 
As free as wanderers of the air, 

Feasting in the tangled wild, 
Unhaunted by the dreams of care, — 

Oh, to be again a child ! 



v. 
Sweet scents and sunshine blending ; 

The wildwoods, in their leafy pride 
To the gentle south wind bending ; — 

Oh, the bonny summer tide ! 
The tinkling, the twinkling, 

Where little limpid rivers lave ; 
The sipping, the dipping 

Of wild-flowers in the gilded wave ; — 
k 2 



132 NOW summek's sunlight. 

The fruitful leas, the blooming trees, 
The fresh green fields, embroidered fair ; 

The wild birds' thrilling melodies, 
Scattering gladness everywhere 1 



133 



THE CAPTAIN'S FRIENDS. 



WANDERED down by yonder park one quiet 

autumn day, 
When many a humble traveller was going on the 

way; 
And there I saw a company of neighbours great and 

small, 
All gathering round the ancient gate that leads unto 

the hall. 



134 the captain's friends. 

n. 
The faded leaves that rustled in the mournful autumn 

wind 
Awoke in me a train of thought that saddened all my 

mind; 
And through the crowd of anxious folk there ran a 

smothered wail, 
So I sat me down upon a stone and hearkened to the 

tale. 



in. 
The sturdy farmer from his fields had hurried to the 

place, 
The cripple on his crutches, and the sick with pallid 

face; 
The poor old dame had wandered with her blind man 

to the ground, 
And the lonely widow, weeping, with her children 

gathered round. 



THE CAPTAIN'S FRIENDS. 135 

IV. 

The well-remembered beggar, too, was there — but not 

to beg ; 
And the stiff old Chelsea pensioner, upon a wooden 

leg: 
From hamlet, fold, and lonely cot the humble poor 

were there, 
Each bringing in his moistened eye a tributary tear. 



v. 
Up spake the sturdy farmer to the porter, and he 

said, 
" What news is this that's going round ? They say 

the Captain's dead ! " 
The quaint old porter laughed, " Aha ! Thank Cod, 

it isn't true ! 
It's but the Captain's dog that's dead — they called it 

< Captain' too!" 



136 THE CAPTAIN'S FRIENDS. 

VI. 

Then sprang the cripple on his crutch, and nearly 

came to ground ; 
The blind man wandered to and fro, and shook their 

hands all round ; 
The dame took snuff, the sick man smiled, and blest 

the happy day ; 
And the widow kissed her young ones, as she wiped 

their tears away. 



VII. 

Up rose the children's voices, mingling music with the 

gale, 
And the beggar's dog romped with them, as he barked 

and wagged his tail ; 
The farmer snapt his thumbs, and cried, "Come on, 

I'll feast you all!" 
And the stark old soldier with his stick kept charging 

at the wall. 



THE CAPTAIN'S FRIENDS. 137 

VIII. 
So, now the Captain's dog is dead and sleeping in the 

ground, 
A kind old master by the grave bemoans his gallant 

hound ; 
And says, " My hair is white and thin ! I have not 

long to stay ! 
Alas, my poor old dog, how I shall miss thee 

on my way ! " 



IX. 

Then here's to every noble heart that's gentle, just, 

and brave, 
That cannot be a tyrant, and that grieves to see a 

slave. 
God save that good old Captain long, and bring his 

soul to joy ; — 
The countryside will lose a friend the clay he comes 

to die. 



138 



OH! COME ACROSS THE FIELDS! 



ATOW, from dreary winter's dream awaking, 

Sweet nature robes herself to meet the spring ; 
Hark, how the blithesome birds are making 
Among the trees their songs of welcoming ! 
Oh, come across the fields, my love, 

And through the woods with me ; 
As nature moves toward the spring, 
So moves my heart to thee, my love, 
So moves my heart to thee ! 



OH ! COME ACEOSS THE FIELDS ! 139 

II. 
See, from their silent shelters sweetly peeping, 

The budding wild-flowers steal with timid glee ; 
See the soft fresh verdure, gently creeping, 
Is mantling over the delighted lea ! 

Then come across the fields, my love, 

And through the woods with me ; 

As nature moves toward the spring, 

So moves my heart to thee, my love, 

So moves my heart to thee ! 



in. 
Oh ! listen, love ; it is the throstle's carol, 

In yonder elm-tree ringing loud and clear \ — 

u First come the buds, and then the bonny blossom — 

The golden summer time will soon be here ! " 

Then come across the fields, my love, 

And through the woods with me ; 



140 oh! come aceoss the fields! 

As nature moves toward the spring, 
So moves my heart to thee, my love, 
So moves my heart to thee. 



IV. 

My heart is like a flowerless winter, wild, 

Where timeless joy sits lone, with folded wing, 
Until thy beauty comes, enchantress mild, 

To melt the gloom, and make the flowers spring ! 
Oh, shine upon my longing heart, 

And I thy charms will sing, 
For thy sweet re-appearing 
Is like another spring, my love, 
Is like another spring ! 



141 



MARY. 



IV /TY Mary is the queen of girls ! 

Cupid's archers round her play. 
And bivouac among the curls 
Which her gentle head array ! 



ii. 
Her modest glances to and fro — 

Ah, little knows she how they win !- 
Would draw an angel down below, 

Or woo the fall'n to heaven again. 



142 MABY. 

in. 

The sweetest bud that ever blew, 
Eden's flowery wilds among, 

Was not so lovely and so true 

As she that wakes my heart to song. 

IV. 

Oh, Mary, such a love as mine 

Idolatry can never be : — 
The very altar is divine 

That owns so much of heaven as thee ! 



143 



LOVE AND GOLD, 



TTTE were but poor young people, 

My Margaret and I ; 
And well T knew she loved me, 

Although her looks were shy : 
But I longed to see strange countries, 

That lie beyond the main ; 
And when I'd gathered riches, 

Come flaunting home again. 



144 LOVE AND GOLD. 

ii. 
When I parted from mj true love, 

A rover's fate to try, 
She was full of strange forebodings, 

And tears were in her eye. 
Pale looks of silent sorrow 

She gave to all my glee, 
When I said, " I'll win some gold, love, 

And bring it back to thee !" 



in. 
But my heart was proudly beating, 

And I was in my prime, 
So, in chase of golden treasure, 

I went from clime to clime ; 
In giddy chase of pleasure, 

Beyond the foaming sea, 
All heedless of the maiden 

Who pined at home for me. 



LOVE AND GOLD. 145 

IV. 

So I sought for gold, and won it. 

And still I wanted more, 
And as my treasure gathered, 

Was poorer than before : 
For it made me proud and heartless ; 

It made me hard and cold ; 
It made me slight my true love — 

That cursed yellow gold S 



v. 

But, in spite of all my riches, 

I was growing old and worn, 
So I took a ship for Eugland. 

The place where I was born ; 
I took a ship for England, 

With all my golden store, 
To dazzle those that knew me 

Full thirty years before. 



146 LOVE AND GOLD. 

VI. 

When I landed with my gold-bags, 

The friends of old were gone ; 
And. in spite of all my riches, 

I felt myself alone. 
Though strangers fluttered round me 

I knew their hearts were cold ; 
And I sought in vain the true love, 

That's never bought with gold. 



VII. 

My skin was parched and yellow, 

My hair was thin and grey, 
And she that loved me dearly, 

Was sleeping in the clay. 
She had long been in the churchyard, 

Sleeping sweet and sound ; — 
I was but a gilded outcast 

Upon the lonely ground. 



LOVE AND GOLD. 147 

VIII. 

Oft to her grave I wander, 

And sit upon the stone, 
But all is still and silent, — 

It answers not rny moan ; 
But I shall soon be going, 

For I am ill and old ; 
And my gold will deck the mourners. 

Who wish that I was cold. 



148 



THE OLD BARD'S WELCOME HOME. 



T) RING nie a goblet of drink divine, 

To welcome a minstrel friend of mine ! 
Enfranchised from the dreary crowd, 
That wrapt his spirit like a shroud, 
Once more he climbs the moorlands dun, 
And hears his native r in dies run ; 
Through pleasant vales he takes his way, 
Where wild-flowers with the waters play ; 



THE OLD BARD'S WELCOME HOME. 149 

And listens with enchanted mind 
As wizard voices in the wind 
Sing of his darling native earth, 
The rude, the true, unconquered north ! 
His native dales, his native streams — 
The angels of his exile-dreams — 
Each dingle green, each breezy height, 
Awakes his spirit to delight. 
Oh, welcome to the sweet old hills ! 
The mossy crags, and tinkling rills — 
To field, and wood, and moorland glen, 
Welcome, welcome home a^ain ! 



Well may the pleasant summer air 
Fondly play with thy silver hair ; 
Well may the brooklet's ripples clear 
Leap as thy footsteps wander near ; 
Well may the wild-flowers on the lea, 
Nodding their pretty heads to thee, 



150 THE OLD BARD'S WELCOME HOME. 

Scatter abroad their sweetest sweet. 
Their fond old poet friend to meet ; — 
They've waited, and have listened long, 
For thee, oh, white-haired son of song ! 

Though tempests rage and clouds are black, 
The sun keeps on his glorious track, 
Serenely shining, to the west, 
And, grandly smiling, sinks to rest. 
Thy task, old bard, is nearly done : 
Oh, may the evening coming on, 
Long lingering sweetly round thy way, 
Close like a cloudless summer day S 



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